


Give Me A Hundred More Nights

by Mamichigo



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 1872
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Fanart, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, marvel 1872 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 06:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14731884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamichigo/pseuds/Mamichigo
Summary: Tony drinks, and that's not new. Steve worries, and that's also not new.





	Give Me A Hundred More Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this fanart I saw on tumblr](http://cecis-artcorner.tumblr.com/post/172171879267/marvel-1872-speed-painti-couldnt-not-draw-this-at); as soon as I saw it, I knew I had to write something for it.
> 
>  
> 
> "Before you go, give me a hundred more nights to say all the things I never did, and then take me with you."

 “Thought I’d find you here,” is what someone says as they approach Tony, hunched over a table in a dark corner of the bar.

Tony, eyes bleary and already on his third bottle of the night, doesn’t register who it is right away; he comes back to himself slowly, brain running to catch up, remembering where he is, what time it is. He looks outside through the window, at the dark clouds full of a storm that is soon to come, and sees Timely late at night. Ah, of course. For a second there, he thought he might be back at his hometown, with his dad bothering his peace and quiet yet again – but the voice hadn’t been deep and scratchy enough, nor was it poisonous enough –, but the illusion dissolves back into his distant memories.

Tony looks up at a tired looking Steve, who has his arms crossed over his chest and an impressive frown on his face. The corners of his mouth are just that tad bit curled down, screaming dissatisfaction, and Tony should probably be more worried that it’s such a common sight to him. But Steve was still there – not only now, but over and over again, with each day and night passed in a drunken stupor, and Tony’s mudded brain concludes that has to mean something.

“Where else would I be?” Tony inquires, smiling as he gestures vaguely to all the liquor lined up on the shelves like shiny trophies. “This is exactly where I belong.”

The crease on Steve’s forehead only gets worse, so much that Tony thinks it might get stuck that way, and really what a waste of a handsome face that would be. Tony makes a mental note to warn him about it later.

“Are you proud of yourself when you say that, Stark?” Even when his words are harsh, Steve doesn’t manage to sound cold, the glint to his blue eyes and the clench of his fists betraying the veiled pleading there.

Tony shrugs as he takes a swig of his whiskey, the burn of it welcome in his otherwise numb body. Steve attempts to keep eye contact, but it seems unlikely that it’ll actually happen when Tony’s gaze is locked on the ice floating in his drink. Frustrated, but undoubtedly used to this, Steve huffs and leans back on the wall, settling for turning to the window for now.

“At least you’re inside, instead of wandering around and subjecting us all to your singing.” Tony snorts at that.

“I’ll have you know I’m a spectacular singer, you just haven’t seen me make an actual effort yet,” he tells Steve, who raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t believe the townspeople would be happier about having their sleep interrupted if you had the voice of an angel, so point still stands.” Steve tilted his head back a little, exposing the line of his throat. “And there’s a storm brewing.”

“What, were you worried about me, Sheriff? How sweet of you.” Tony chuckles quietly at the groan that comes from Steve.

“Just making sure you don’t do anything insanely stupid, Stark. You already make enough attempts on your own life as it is.” He pointedly looked at the alcohol and Tony raises the glass to toast his words, sarcasm dripping from his every move.

“You worry too much.”

“And you drink too much.”

Tony downs the rest of the whiskey and offers a shit-eating grin, to which Steve clicks his tongue; his shoulders are so tense that is has to be painful, seriously, the guy needs to relax.

“You should care less, Steve, it’d do you some good. It can’t be healthy to worry all the time like this.” The words don’t seem to help with the relaxing thing, as Steve clenches his jaw uncomfortably tight.

“Like you do? No, thanks. Worrying is part of the job, Stark. I hope you realize how much of a hypocrite you are for saying that, by the way.”

“I’m as much of a hypocrite as you are for talking about risking my life, Sheriff. And, yeah sure, exactly like I do. You can’t care if you’re too drunk to even feel your fingers, after all.” Tony wiggles said fingers at him. “Answer me this, Steve. Do you check on everyone else each night? Is it also part of your job?”

Steve pauses, a hint of hesitance that is so uncommon to the determined sheriff, the hand he has around his upper arm tightening slightly further, bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

“No, I don’t, but none of them drink as much as you do,” he finally answers, words slow and measured, careful of what comes out of his own mouth. Interesting.

Tony goes to pour some more whiskey for himself, but a hand closes over his own around the bottle, warms fingers against cold glass. How Steve moved so fast is a mystery to Tony, though it is very probable that he zoned out again. Tony was pretty much wasted, after all.

Careful not to spill the liquid all over the table, Tony pulls on the bottle, trying to bring it closer to himself, but Steve doesn’t let go. Quite the contrary actually, as Steve’s grips gets stronger and he looks at Tony with a clear challenge in his eyes.

“You know, if you wanted to hold hands, you could’ve just said so,” Tony easily jokes.

“Cut the crap, Stark. How much have you drunken in the past hour? I’m willing to bet it’s more than any sane person would drink in an entire month. Give it a rest for today already.”

Neither of them budges; as much as Tony is fond of Steve, no one gets between him and alcohol, so the Sheriff’s stubbornness only serves to sour his mood, his stomach heavy with the sudden anger. He doesn’t have energy for this kind of confrontation, doesn’t have the fire to shout and yell like he had done oh so many times in arguments with Howard. Tony grits his teeth and glares.

“You really want to do this? Let go, Steve.”

“No offense, Stark, but I don’t think you’re stupid enough to get in a fight with the Sheriff. I said it’s enough, you can drink again tomorrow _after_ sleeping and eating something. Drink some water instead for a change.”

Despite it all, Steve is right (he often is). Going against the Sheriff is asking for a couple bruises and a night in prison, so not the most brilliant idea. Tony eyes the whiskey, the brand that looks like it has his name on it, feels the phantom burn of it in his body. He lets go, slumping in his chair with a defeated sigh.

Steve smiles and friendly pats him on the back, like he’s congratulating an obedient animal – and Tony, who leans into the touch eagerly, has to ask himself if he isn’t just exactly that.

“I’m not drinking anymore, are you happy now? I’m even behaving myself today and not being a bother, so you can go back to your job or whatever and just leave me alone already,” he means to sound biting and or even a little aggressive, but his voice cracks and lowers to a whisper by the end. Just like that, his whole demeanor falls and shatters. Maybe it’s a piece of it that finds its way into his esophagus to cut away the skin from inside out, leaving him to swallow the imaginary taste of blood at the back of his mouth.

Steve is frowning again, but there is something different to it this time; maybe it’s the softness in the muted blue of his eyes, or the way he hesitantly reaches out to Tony, hand raised just over Tony’s. Something breaks in his chest, his sternum collapsing to crush his heart painfully, almost making him wheeze at the force of it. It hasn’t been even a full minute without his drink and Tony already can’t deal with this anymore, his palms itching to have something to take a swig of.

He’s still drunk, but Tony feels too sober against Steve’s earnestness.

“Tony…”

A clap of thunder breaks the sky, loud and deafening in the quietness of the bar, followed by the insistent tap of the rain against the windows and roof tiles. Tony isn’t particularly afraid of storms, but the sound of his given name coming from Steve’s mouth got him so shaken that the thunder causes a full body flinch. His right knee jerks violently, hitting the wood of the tabletop and sending a shock down his leg; the glasses jump up and clatter, the one he had be drinking from tipping over and rolling with the momentum.

 Tony reaches for it, and Steve reaches for him with a warning shout, and a second later he has a bleeding finger and a knee that throbs along with his quickened heart rate.

“Jesus, Stark!” Steve breaths out, frozen where he is, wanting to help but afraid of further escalating the problem.

‘Stark’, not Tony. Did he imagine Steve saying it, then? It wouldn’t be the first time alcohol did something similar: his drunken mind seemed particularly fond of fantasizing about the Sheriff.

Or maybe that was just a Tony thing, not a drinking thing.

He pays half a mind to Steve, who is appeasing the unhappy barkeeper, the old man not liking the mess they’ve made of the floor, glass, melted ice and blood mixed together. Only when Steve promises to clean it for him that it gets him to calm down. He seems satisfied enough with the offer, though he’s still eyeing them suspiciously.

“Are you alright, Stark?” He startles at the hand on his shoulder, and Tony looks up to see Steve retreating said hand, peering down at him with that worried frown again.

“Yeah, never been better.” Tony shoves his bloodied finger into his mouth, sucking on the cut there.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to take care of a wound, Stark.” He holds a hand out, palm up, and waits expectantly.

“Oh, please, it’s just a little cut, don’t make it sound like some war injury.” Tony snorts but obeys, offering his hand to Steve’s scrutiny and careful handling.

“You really should take better care of yourself before it gets you killed.” Steve admonishes, and he sounds like he genuinely cares about Tony’s life, not just because of his occupation. Tony laughs quietly; oh, Steve, but that’s exactly point.

“Hypocrite,” Tony accuses.

“That’s different.” He ties a strip of bandage he got from his belt around Tony’s finger, firm enough to hold but not hurt.

“Is it, really? At the end, we’ll both be dead, so I fail to see how the motivation behind it matters.”

“It does. I’m trying to save people first and foremost, dying might just be a consequence of it. But what of you, Stark? What are you trying to accomplish with all this?” Steve points to the drink still sitting on the table, to the shattered glass, to the bandaged finger. It feels a hell of a lot like he’s pointing to Tony’s very soul.

“Oblivion.”

A flash of lightning blinds them for a moment too quick to count, the star on Steve’s chest shining sinisterly with it.  _At the end, we’ll both be dead._

“Look at me, Stark.” It’s gentle, but a command nonetheless, and Tony lets out a scratchy laugh as his head lolls back, resolutely looking at the ceiling. “I said look at me, damn you...”

It was amusing, how Steve couldn’t resist letting the frustration get to him, even when trying to help someone.

“Then at least listen to me, get this somewhere inside that empty head of yours. I won’t let you die, Tony.” Now, _that_ made him whip his head towards Steve, eyes wide. “I don’t care how much you want to off yourself, I won’t let you. And if you think you’ll be rid of me once I die, you’re very mistaken.”

“Are you saying you plan to haunt me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Tony looked at the determined set of his jaws, the fire in his eyes, the harsh posture of someone who was bracing themselves for a fight, and smiled. He didn’t doubt Steve would go through with it, but while the image of an angry Steve ghost just following him around and screaming was amusing, he preferred to have the Sheriff very much alive.

“I don’t know how much you actually remember when you’re this drunk, but you better remember this, at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I will.”

 

* * *

 

The bullet shoots Steve cleanly through chest, and Tony remembers.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not particularly happy with the flow in this, but I like the general result. I hope you guys enjoyed it, thank you for reading!
> 
> Wanna talk about my fics or discuss headcanons? Then find me on my writing blog [@mamichigo](https://mamichigo.tumblr.com/)!


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